


After Sense

by sidespace



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3457019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidespace/pseuds/sidespace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Orison. Two stubborn loners, a lifetime of trauma, and the vagaries of physical attraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: After Sense  
Author: sidespace  
Feedback: sidespaced@gmail.com, or at AO3  
Rating: NC-17  
Keywords: Orison post-ep; MSR  
Spoilers: Season 7 to Orison, at which point we swerve.  
Disclaimer, for old times’ sake: Kisses to 1013.  
Archive: Anywhere 

“We patch and tinker more than we renew.” - William James

\-----------------

In her youth, Dana Scully was not an It Girl. High school and college students striving for eccentricity took one look at her - the red-headed know-it-all in hand knit sweaters and a gold cross - and decided she wasn’t worth knowing. It didn’t help that she never bothered to whitewash her interests with drugs and sex, arcane knowledge of trendy local bands, or late night viewings of Werner Herzog films. Eventually, she became adept at countering their disdain with her own. So what if she wasn’t one of the invited ones? She put the work in. She didn’t need subtitles.

In the end, she didn’t really learn about social hierarchies, nor her place within them, until med school, where she was quickly sized up and adopted into the fold. Her new friends baked walnut brownies for Saturday night study sessions and dragged her to Talbots sales.

But shoulder pads and baking couldn’t mask a growing set of rumors, and she was eventually confronted about her troublesome relationship with Professor Waterston. Even now, she feels an echo of discomfort when she remembers accusing faces around a cheap oak table and a vase of silk sunflowers. “Come on. We know something’s going on. And he’s *married*, Dana.” 

If nothing else, she’d learned she was a piss-poor liar. 

After the invites to study sessions and G-rated parties tapered off, she could have sought out the cool, sulky ones who would have found her transgressions charming, or at least fodder for a decent weekend conversation. But she didn’t. Instead, she spent a lot of time alone, falling further into Daniel’s late-night visits to her one-bedroom apartment.

Now, seven years after meeting Fox Mulder, she has transformed into a rebel with dark clothing, short hair, and a poisonous tattoo. Talbots is confined to the darkest part of her closet. But stylish cuts do not entirely mask her secular sacrilege: she still hasn’t forgotten her God. She is never more aware of Mulder’s otherness than when she ventures to speak of her beliefs. She hates every moment of this - trying to find precise, clean phrases that can cut through his careful smile and patronizing eyes. And after seven years, she still comes away from those conversations feeling like the poseur who doesn’t quite get it.

In her living room, an assistant ME is zipping Donald Pfaster’s body into a fluid-proof body bag. She has been avoiding Mulder’s face all morning, with its profound mix of disappointment and worry and the trapped look of a lovesick man who knows he can no longer just walk away. 

“If you want to pack some things, we can get out of here.”

She absently picks up her Bible, still thinking of fake sunflowers.

“You can’t judge yourself.” His voice is pitched low. She’s amazed that after all these years, he still doesn’t know it’s his judgment she’s most worried about. 

“Maybe I don’t have to.” 

“The Bible allows for vengeance.”

“But the law doesn’t.” She wants to take these words back as soon as they leave her mouth. She is not attempting to secure his allegiance.

“The way I see it, he didn’t give you a choice. And my report will reflect that, in case you’re worried. Donnie Pfaster would’ve surely killed again given the chance.” 

He speaks quietly, in case other voices are listening. She has seen Mulder break into homes without cause, hit evil men and threaten common ones, but she has never seen him bury the truth. It is profoundly unsettling.

She needs to paste some kind of narrative on the horrific events of the past few days, so she goes on, even though he suspects he would prefer not to talk about this. “He was evil, Mulder. I’m sure about that, without a doubt. But there’s one thing that I’m not sure of.”

“What’s that?”

“Who was at work in me. Or what. What made me...what made me pull the trigger.” 

If he notices her foible - she can’t say, “What made me kill him”, and most likely never will - he ignores it.

“You mean if it was God?”

“I mean, what if it wasn’t?”

She looks at him, knowing that he hasn’t yet grasped the contradiction here. He doesn’t believe in a God that could have been at work within her, and will not believe that she murdered someone in cold blood. He looks blankly to the floor and shakes his head. “Let’s talk about this later Scully. We should get out of here.”

She stands. “I’ll get my things.” 

He nods and stands up, looking out her shuttered window and rubbing a hand over his face.

She is halfway to her chest of drawers when she remembers that Pfaster’s hands have searched through them. Dropping the idea of clean underwear, she walks to the closet instead, ignoring the shoes scattered across the floor by her desperate movements a few hours before. Her best black suit and most expensive heels go into a suit bag, along with a couple of sweaters, a camisole, and some black lounge pants. She changes quickly, casting her torn, bloodied pajamas on the floor. The crime scene techs will probably want them; if not, the cleaners will know what to do.

When she walks back out, Mulder is shifting his shoes back and forth through the shards of glass on the floor, absently making little piles at the foot of her bed. 

She pulls a toiletry bag from her carry on, but leaves her badge and gun on the dresser.

“I’m ready if you are.”

He has a glazed look but recovers enough to touch her back as they walk to the bedroom door, dodging books and pictures and larger plates of shattered mirror. In the living room, one of the techs is pulling a slug out of her ceiling. He looks down at her curiously as they pass. Mulder nods at someone and they walk out of the apartment.

The drive back is silent aside from the soft click of the turn signal and a nearly inaudible baseball announcer; she can’t make out who’s playing, or where. Mulder doesn’t look at her or ask where she wants to go. That’s good, because she doesn’t know that she’d say. She thinks of the heavy thud of Pfaster’s body as it hit her wooden floor. Mulder’s shocked eyes. And then, practical things: whether her rental insurance will cover the floorboards in the living room; who she can hire to rip up and replace them.

When they arrive at his apartment, it smells like dust and something dank. Old garbage. Mulder immediately dodges into the kitchen to make it acceptable, throwing her overnight bag on the sofa. She wonders where she should put things and herself. She has never slept in his bed, never really been here without a file in her hand or a Serious Thing to say. 

He drops a garbage bag in his hallway without a word and then returns to the kitchen. A few moments later he stands in the doorway, backlit, slowly drying his hands with a striped towel. She still hasn’t put her suit bag down or turned on a light.

“Scully.”

His voice is raspy, and she knows she should look up, but instead she just stares at the scuffed baseboards in his entryway, breathing evenly and trying to keep her mouth from trembling.

He walks towards her and drops the towel on the table, takes the suit bag and drapes it over the couch. Then he wraps his arms around her, a warm and simple thing. Her head comes to rest on his chest and she breathes him in.

“Dr. Scully usually prescribes a shower, some ibuprofen, and sleep.” His voice is low and rumbly through his chest. She chuckles weakly as he slowly moves his hands up and down her arms. “I’ll make some food.”

She doesn’t tease him about having food in a cheeky voice, or tell him she’s fine in a strong one, just breathes out and lets her head fall forward to his chest. He gently turns her and leads her towards his bathroom. She stands in the doorway and looks down at Mulder’s tattered toothbrush as he leans over to open a cabinet, keeping a hand on her arm. She has told him more than once not to brush so hard, but now it is inexplicably comforting to see the wayward fibers, pressed too hard to snap back. 

He places his hand under her chin and gently angles her head back so that she meets his gaze. Her throat is beginning to hurt and she knows she will have bruising around her neck.

“Are you okay?”

She is anything but okay, but he knows this. She nods and he runs his hands down to her shoulders. “The EMT said you have mild concussive symptoms. Can you shower?”

“I have a moderate headache, but no dizziness or nausea.”

He looks at her for a moment, then dips his head. He rubs his arms once more up and down her sides and then pushes away from the counter.

“Call me if you need anything.”

She watches him walk out of the bathroom, wondering what that something might be.

\-----------------

Scully keeps her eyes off of her body as she undresses. As soon as she’s under the spray she realizes that she’s left her toiletries in the other room and curses softly. She pulls a gray bottle from the rim of the tub and rubs Mulder’s shampoo through her short hair, gingerly going over the new bumps on the back of her head and teasing out little tangles fused with blood. It hadn’t hurt when Pfaster threw her into the mirror; she was scared and fighting. But her entire body hurts like hell now. She thinks of his eyes alive and crazed, then turning cloudy on her apartment floor. After her hair and body are cleaned of blood and sweat she stands in the shower for a few minutes, letting the water run down her upper back.

When she’s done, she runs the towel through her hair listlessly, with none of the energy required to fight the temperamental new cut into submission. It is already starting to frizz in the moist bathroom air. She smoothes it down absently and walks to the bathroom door in her towel. 

“Mulder? Could you bring my bag?” She cranes just her head out, not wanting him to see the bruises that are blooming across her arms, shoulders, and upper back.

He brings the bag over and his eyes briefly rove over the area exposed by the towel, checking for damage. She allows this.

“Thanks.” She smells hot food. “Something smells good.”

He nods. “Eggs, and naan left over from the other night.”

“I’ll be right out.”

It’s been a long time since she’s worn pajamas in the middle of the day. She tries to pull her camisole back on, but her back is a maze of bruises and scratches. The sweaters are too tight and rub her sensitive skin. Suddenly, nothing seems right, and she sits on the toilet, overwhelmed. Mulder approaches the door.

“You ready, Scully?” She absently notes it’s the voice he uses with children and the emotionally distraught.

“Sorry. I’m, uh, looking for something that won’t rub against my back.”

He is silent for a long moment. “I have an old shirt. Will that work?”

She stares at her toes against his slightly dirty bathroom floor, as if they can tell her how to deal with this godawful situation. “Yeah.”

He walks away from the door and she hears things shifting around in his bedroom closet. She’s about to call out and tell him that it doesn’t matter, but then he returns, holding an old plaid shirt that she vaguely remembers from the first years of their partnership. The raw interior of her wrists pulls uncomfortably as she buttons the front, but the fabric is soft against her chest.

She finally faces the mirror. Her eyeliner is smearing below her eyes and she rubs it up towards her lash line. She has a large red bruise on her cheek, some pink blotches around her throat, and a bruise below her collarbone that’s exposed by the loose shirt. Her hair is already waving back from her face. She finds a creme in her bag that will keep the frizz down as it dries.

Special Agent Scully has gone to seed. She supposes he’s seen her looking worse, but not by much.

Mulder is sitting on the couch writing on a legal pad when she comes out. He looks up at her, then down at her bare feet, and manages a wisp of a smile. Tea is steaming next to him and she takes it carefully, breathing in the clean smell. 

“You want naan?”

She nods and he walks to the kitchen, returning with a couple of plates stacked with eggs and warm bread. She is surprisingly hungry, and downs the meds afterwards, murmuring her gratitude. She doesn’t ask Mulder what he was writing. Eventually, she gets up to put the dishes away. He immediately shuts her down - “Scully,” drawing her name out at the end - and she wavers. The drugs are beginning to kick in.

“Why don’t you get some rest? I can work out here.”

She thinks about fighting him on this - sleeping in his bed feels like crossing a line, even though he slept in hers years ago. But she is exhausted and the soft light of the apartment makes her wearier still.

“Aren’t you tired? You’ve been up all night too.”

“I’m fine. Go get some sleep.”

“Wake me later.”

He nods and watches her as she pads carefully into his bedroom. She leaves the door cracked; he will not wake her.

\-----------------

“At approximately 10:15 PM on February 25, 1997, I attempted to reach Agent Scully at her home to inform her of a conference call I had scheduled with USMS field operations for 9:30 AM the next morning, and to discuss a series of unusual coincidences related to Donald Pfaster’s disappearance. At the time of my call, I had not spoken to Agent Scully since leaving the Marion Country crime scene at approximately 5:30 PM. Agent Scully did not answer her home line or her mobile phone. Because of the assailant’s prior assault on Agent Scully (case file X-00892231), I became concerned for her welfare.”

I arrived at Agent Scully’s apartment building at approximately 10:40 PM. From the hallway, I could hear unusually loud music inside the apartment. No lights were on. These circumstances led me to believe that the perpetrator may have entered the residence and turned on music to mask noise. Upon forcing the door, I observed the assailant in the living room, and Agent Scully in immediate pursuit. Her hands and throat were partially bound. She fired one round into the assailant’s chest from a standing position at a range of 3 to 4 feet (Appendix 2a). The assailant was facing her at the time. She held her gun unsteadily, and without a support hand, most likely because of bruising and loss of circulation associated with ligature restriction. It is my opinion that Agent Scully, who had been subjected to considerable violence before being bound by the assailant (injuries documented in Appendix 1b), was not aware of my position in the room at the time she fired her weapon. 

Agent Scully’s round impacted the assailant’s chest. She subsequently called emergency services (10:44 PM), while I stayed with the assailant. EMTs arrived at 10:53 PM and attempted to revive Pfaster for approximately 40 minutes. He was declared deceased at 11:51PM.

Inspection of the crime scene suggested that the assailant searched the kitchen and closet drawers for implements of torture/assault and had begun preparing the bathroom in a manner consistent with prior crimes (e.g., PID: Sullivan, Veronica, X-00892231). A large kitchen knife and a pair of kitchen shears were found on the bathroom counter (Appendix 2b). In past assaults, the assailant used found objects to remove victim hair, fingers, and toes. Appendix 2c documents other evidence of ritualistic preparation. The ligatures used to bind Agent Scully’s hands, legs, and mouth were constructed by women’s hose found by the assailant at the scene, suggesting that he was in the apartment for some time prior to the attack.

After providing my crime scene statement, I learned that U.S. Marshall Joe Daddo called my home phone at 8:37 PM on the 25th of February to request assistance in interpreting Pfaster’s state of mind during an assault that took place on the evening of February 24th (PID: Matthews, Karen, X-00998244). Daddo left a message indicating that Pfaster became enraged after discovering that the victim, who wore a wig at the time of the assault, was not a natural redhead. I did not receive this message until the morning after the assault on Agent Scully. The victim’s statement strongly suggests that the assailant’s actions were premeditated, fueled by an obsession with Agent Scully that began during his previous (1994) assault on her life and persisted throughout his incarceration. In an interview subsequent to the present assault, Agent Scully stated that the assailant showed no remorse for his past and present crimes. Because of the perversity of his crimes, and his brazen targeting of law enforcement personnel post-incarceration, Donald Pfaster represented a significant threat to the public at the time of his death.” 

Mulder leans back from his laptop, pulls off his glasses, and rubs his hands across his face. He reads through the summary account once more and decides this is a truth he can live with. He is certain that the internal review will be perfunctory. After seeing how Donnie Pfaster lived, no one will care how he died.

\-----------------

Scully wakes up gradually, to dusky light. She can’t remember where she is until makes out a cluttered box and smells Mulder’s sheets. When she stretches, pain shoots down her back and arms.

By the time she manages a sitting position, he is tapping at the bedroom door. 

“Yeah. I’m awake.” Her voice is rusty.

He passes her a glass of water and the bottle of pills. “It’s been four hours.” She gratefully accepts, wondering when he became someone who could remember his own pill schedule, much less hers.

“How are you feeling?”

He is looking down at her, and it hurts to crane her neck up. She pats the bed beside her and puts the glass on the floor so that she can tuck her wavy hair behind her ears.

“I’ve felt better.”

“I bet.” He sits carefully on the bed, looking over her face and neck. Something flickers there but he just says, “Nice hair.”

She rolls her eyes and bumps him on the knee. She is off balance, but relaxed, her mind cloudy from afternoon sleep. She hears soft music coming from the living room and a late afternoon breeze lazily shifts the branches of a tree outside his window.

“Skinner sent us an email. Your review isn’t scheduled until Friday. He also said that you’re being recommended for a commendation.”

She looks up, shocked. “You’re kidding.” He smiles a bit at her look of dismay, and some of the tension eases out of her.

He shakes his head. “I am not. Our esteemed boss knows how to play the game, Scully, and the tide of public opinion is in your favor. Let me show you.”

He gets up and returns with his laptop. “Check it out. The Post just put tomorrow’s front page article up online.” The top half of the page is taken up by a picture of crime scene tape in front of her apartment building. She groans; not again. Further down, Pfaster’s mugshot, next to her official FBI portrait.

“Damn it.” She reaches for her phone on the floor. No missed calls, but they would be coming soon. “I have to call my mother. And Bill.”

He nods and turns back to the file. “Give my best to your brother.”

Scully gives him a look and punches out her mother’s number. Maggie is predictably worried, but happy to have been notified before she received the news from the media. 

“Where are you staying tonight, Dana?”

“At Mulder’s. We’re still finishing up some of the details.” Scully keeps her voice neutral. She knows what her mother must be thinking, but decides silence is easier than trying to explain her whereabouts while Mulder can overhear. She’s not sure she can explain it to herself, much less to her, or him.

Surprisingly, her mother does not try and cajole her into coming over. Instead, she just sighs. “You should be resting, Dana.”

“I am, Mom.” 

Luckily, her mother leaves it at that. Luckier still, Bill is at sea, and she gets away with leaving a brief message.

\-----------------

Later that night they sit on Mulder’s couch, watching one of the Lethal Weapons on TNT. Her feet are wrapped in his oversized socks and stretched out on the coffee table. She is too sore to curl up. 

They have experienced many lifetimes worth of trauma, and he knows she would like to get back to her routine. That’s impossible as long as her apartment is off limits, so he lets her slip into his. Earlier, they read side by side on their laptops -- he, “Creative, Paranormal, and Delusional Thought: A Consequence of Right Hemisphere Semantic Activation?” and she, “Investigation of Nocturnal Oviposition by Necrophilous Flies.” But she was uncharacteristically restless, or troubled, or both, and after her third sigh, he turned on the TV.

“Kroner was really bad.” She picks up the thread of an earlier conversation. Over dinner, they’d talked about some of their worst cases.

He nods and absently scratches his chin. “Yeah, you were in a particular mood. But I still think that hurricane-sea-monster-combo in Florida might take the cake.”

“God, I was wet for 16 hours --”

“Ah-hem.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I was in a bad mood for good reason in Kroner.”

“You just don’t play high school well, do you Scully?”

“No, I don’t play Kansas well. And as I recall, I had a reason to get back.”

He looks over, head tilted back on the worn leather couch. “The plot thickens.”

“Mmm.” She watches his eyes. He is smirking, but there is something too-composed in his expression.

“Let me guess: a dashing young gentleman? A well-financed divorcee of a certain age?” His voice is a bit raspy, his eyes hooded.

That gets him a look. “We were set up by a friend from med school.” As he opens his mouth to ask: “Analyst. Divorced, no kids.”

His eyebrows raise for a split second, and she knows this confession has caught him off guard. “One time thing?”

She returns her eyes to the television, wondering how this came up today, of all days. “A two or three time thing.” 

“So secretive, Scully. What happened? Did he get tired of the constant excuses? ‘I’m sorry, hon, but tonight’s just not going to work. I’m exhausted and covered in bile.’”

She looks over and makes a dismissive noise. “It wasn’t really going anywhere. And then...”

He looks down at her abdomen and taps his hand there, softly. She sucks in a breath.

“Yes. After New York I think it rapidly became clear that I had other priorities.” She pauses mid-sentence, trying to find an appropriately neutral expression, but Mulder doesn’t press her. Instead, he just looks at her for a beat before removing his hand, then turns back at the television. Mel Gibson is comparing scars with another cop. Scully idly thinks that she and Mulder have never done this. 

He insists that she take the bed that night. For a time, she avoids thinking about Pfaster by trying to picture the analyst. He’d had grey eyes and a serious expression, and was charmingly curious about her and her work. It had been such an infuriating time; Mulder seemed resentful after they’d gotten back from Antarctica. Fed up, really. He’d ditched her during that goddamned Queen Anne imbroglio, and there were long days in the basement when it seemed as though all the fun had gone out of their bickering. If she was honest with herself, it hadn’t helped that Diana was slinking around the halls.

Predictably, in the midst of tragedy, they seemed to have righted themselves. But this thought leads her back to Pfaster, and to other lives she has ended. She doesn’t sleep well.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, she finalizes her written statement and sends it off to the Deadly Force Incident Review Committee. Objective documentation had been difficult: her memory skipped through that night like a warped tape, now real-time, now slow-action. Finally, after two hours, she’d drafted the critical final paragraph: “After working through the ligatures on my hands and legs, I retrieved my gun. I heard Pfaster in the living room and pursued him there. As I entered the room, he turned towards me. Although he was unarmed at the time of this encounter, I had twice attempted to physically subdue him in my home, and had failed both times. I therefore felt my life was in imminent danger. I fired one shot at a range of approximately 3 feet. Pfaster was facing me at the time, with his body partially angled towards the northwest wall of the room. After I fired, I became aware that Agent Mulder was in the room, standing behind the assailant.”

This is all, essentially, true. She does not ask Mulder to read her account. Instead, she walks to a the nearest shop that sells underwear. It’s an upscale shop with French and Italian labels - far too expensive for her budget - but the thought of Mulder hovering over her as she stands in the underwear aisle at Target is too much.

Now it’s evening again, and the 76ers are beating the hell out of the Knicks. 

“Oh, come on Sprewell! Stop trying to force it!”

When she leans forward to see what Mulder is yelling about she reflexively draws a sharp breath. Her back has been stiff all day. The bruising woke her early in the morning, and she’d spent long minutes looking out into the gray dawn before hearing the faint sounds of brewing coffee. When she finally emerged from the bedroom, hair raked down and carefully tucked, Mulder was balancing a coffee cup on his knee and reading a case file with sleepy eyes, glasses perched low on his nose.

Now, he hears her intake of breath and looks over, concerned.

“Back?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m due for some more ibuprofen, I think.”

“I think I still have some hydrocodone from earlier this year if you want something stronger.”

“No, ibuprofen will be fine.”

“Wait, I know what you need.”

He stands, knees popping, and walks to the bathroom.

After searching through a few drawers, he returns with a tin of arnica she’d given him a couple of years earlier. She appreciates the gesture, but this will be tricky with stiff arms; the sorest area is in the upper-middle portion of her back, where Pfaster had thrown her against the glass.

“Need some help?” 

He always was a good guesser.

“Yeah, probably. Let me change into your shirt, if you don’t mind?”

“Not a problem. I’m pretty sure there’s already a blood stain on it.”

She gives him a grimace and walks into the bedroom to change. Thinks twice, then removes her bra; the shirt is loose enough. When she comes back, Mulder has pushed the coffee table out from the couch and dropped a pillow on the floor.

She sits down gingerly in front of him. The Knicks are six minutes away from dropping another division game. 

“Where is it sore?”

He lifts the back of her shirt just a bit, and she hunches forward a bit more, pulling her legs in and resting her arms on her knees.

“I think it’s focused to the right of T5. So about halfway down my upper back --“

“Right there?” His hand was warm and she could smell the pungent scent of the arnica.

“Little to the right. Yeah, there.”

“Tell me if I’m doing this too hard.”

“That’s good.”

She leans forward a bit more as Mulder passes over the hematoma, feather light at first, then with increasing pressure. The touch isn’t pleasant, exactly, but it doesn’t feel bad, either. She tenses a bit as he pushed her shirt a bit higher. His hands pause.

“Christ, Scully. I didn’t realize it was this bad.” He traces the bruising across her back and down her spine. “This was from the mirror?”

It is so strange to remember Pfaster with Mulder’s hands on her skin. “Yeah. We fought through the bedroom.” She got some good, solid kicks in. Kicks that she’d practiced for months after the first attack. She’d thought she would win, but he kept coming back.

Mulder’s hands pause again, reading the tension in her shoulders. “You would have had him even if I hadn’t show up.”

“Yes. I think I would have.” 

“You would have.” His hands move from her shoulder blades to her shoulders. He grips them there, once, a show of solidarity, and pulls his hands away, sliding her shirt back down.

“Scully?” He tugs gently on the shirt and she turns. His eyes are dark, and she feels like this is the first time she’s really looked at him since she fired the shot. For a crazed moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her. The room sharpens against the pungent smell of the arnica, the muted sound of the shot clock buzzer, and the bubbling of the fish tank.

“I need you to know this. I’ve been thinking. I would have made the same call.” He sighs. “I have made the same call. And I believe...I believe those coincidences were a little true contrived.”

Her eyes are watering from the arnica and his words, and she presses a quick kiss to his thumb. “Thanks, Mulder.” For a weird instant, the urge to tell him she loves him is overpowering. But instead she just turns back to the game.

The Knicks lose. This time, sleep comes quickly.

\-----------------

Friday starts with a soft rap on the bedroom door. Mulder has coffee waiting when she comes out, and chuckles as she immediately takes it into the bathroom and starts the shower. She dresses quickly, ready to get to the office and through the panel review. On their way out, he hands her the case file. His incident report is on top, and she carefully reads through his concise language, slippery as a seasoned lawyer’s. She wonders how much those words have cost him.

As expected, the meeting with OPR is largely perfunctory. No one speaks of the odd angle of the kill shot; she assumes Mulder’s comment about the ligatures has taken care of that. At one point, she catches Skinner looking at the bruises on her wrists.

After their brief period of joint testimony, Mulder leaves to go back to the office, and she spends a tedious hour with Maria Suarez from the FBI’s Peer Support Team. DCPD, FBI and USMS have concluded their on-site investigations in Scully’s apartment, leaving her free to clean up the mess. Maria runs through a short list of recommended cleaning services. Scully doesn’t have the heart to tell her that their first recommendation charges an exorbitant amount for shoddy carpet cleaning and number two does a piss-poor job of re-plastering. Afterwards, she walks down to a cringe-inducing, mandatory meeting with counseling support staff - “Tell me, Dana, how have you been sleeping?” - and then spends the rest of the morning methodically sorting through online wood samples with friendly names (New England Dock, Worn Ebony, Bleached Maple), trying to imagine living in her apartment again.

Mulder catches up with her in the office a little before five. 

“Hey. How are you doing?” He has a hand on his neck, head tilted.

“Good. The cleaning service can’t make it until tomorrow morning. I hate to impose for another night. The Westin is --“

“You’re not imposing.” His tone brooks no argument, which is good, because she doesn’t feel like making one. He pulls his coat off the rack. “Let’s head out, I’m starving.” And then, more carefully: “Feel like going out?”

She looks down reflexively -- black sweater, black pants, no problem. “Sure.“

\-----------------

They park near Mulder’s apartment and walk to a place a few blocks away on Queen Street. It’s unseasonably warm, but a breeze flits across the damp evening sidewalk, and Scully buttons her coat. Mulder walks next to her with his hands in his pockets. They have not walked in this direction in a long time - not since last spring, before Africa and neural illness and the summer prior, when Mulder had gone suspiciously AWOL on most weekends and come into the office looking even more suspiciously well-rested on Monday mornings. She’d never asked what that was about.

Slim’s - technically Slim’s 7, though they’d never encountered any of its brother or sister establishments - is starting its gradual nightly transition from restaurant to evening haunt by the time they arrive. They sit in the front window booth, far enough away from the long wooden bar to avoid being splashed by tipsily-held drinks. Young professionals in dark tops and chic boots are draped around the bar, their animated chatter at odds with the opening chords of “A Day in the Life”. She’s been here with him a handful of times over the last few years; it’s lately become a default, since it’s one of the few restaurants they can agree on. Mulder likes the walls, which are covered with bizarre religious iconography left behind by the previous tenants. Scully just likes the menu and the clean tables.

Mulder looks up from the printed table flyer and cocks his head.

“Half price bottle night, Scully. Shall we walk on the wild side?”

“We’re permanently encamped on the wild side, Mulder.” She looks down at the menu, curious. She’s off pain meds, so this is probably fine, if a little unusual for them. “See something you like?”

He smirks but otherwise manages to restrain himself. “How about a nice, suburban cabernet?”

She ghosts a smile. “Sure, Mulder.”

They order and sit quietly for a moment. The sodium lights along the riverfront cast moody yellow shadows across the low clouds rolling in from the Potomac. For some reason she recalls a ridiculous dinner they’d had ages ago. Ribs, in Wisconsin, at a bright family place nothing like this. He’d wiped something from her mouth and she’d blushed. 

“Strange how much this neighborhood has changed, huh?”

She looks back to him, away from the memory. “Very much so. I came to Arlington once or twice in college. Even more so since then.”

His eyes glint and he opens his mouth to reply - undoubtedly to emit some niggling comment about her college social life - when she is saved by the waitress. Mulder takes his glass and raises it with an ironic little wiggle.

Scully just cocks her head and fingers her wine stem. “If you can come up with an appropriate toast, I’ll be shocked.“

He clicks his tongue. “Nonsense. I’m happy to toast to my partner’s extraordinary and ever-ripening abilities of self-preservation.”

“Ever-ripening, Mulder?”

“Sure. Keep it up and that Cat Woman suit Frohicke is always talking about might finally show up on your doorstep.”

She purses her lips and taps her glass softly to his. Their eyes lock for a moment as her head tips back. Mulder’s eyes are dark in the dim light of the bar and she eventually breaks off to look at a group of revelers behind him. A young woman is perched on a stool, teasing a man. Others listen in on their banter and laugh loudly at odd intervals.

“Seems like Slim’s is starting to heat up.” They’d found this place by accident after a late-night stakeout a couple of years prior. It had just opened, and they shared the joint with the bartender and a neighborhood bum. Now it was becoming more of a destination.

“It’s a great bar. House-infused jalapeño vodka, a one-of-a-kind velvet nativity scene, green stuff on the menu.” He pauses for effect. “We should really come here more often, Scully.”

She takes another sip of wine and looks again at the young professionals at the bar, trying to remember what she was doing at their age.

“Mulder?”

“Mm.”

“Why do you think I was sent in as your partner?”

He raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject and shifts the wine around in his glass. “I guess I’ve always taken them - Blevins, Spender, whoever - at face value. I don’t know. Maybe they thought I really had gone off my rocker. That you’d come in and skewer me. Little did they know that traitors aren’t the only monsters among us...”

She can feel a monologue coming on, and heads him off. “Yeah, but why me, specifically? Someone else could have been brought in. A more seasoned agent.” She watches as his expression becomes more neutral, the face he wears for suspects and Skinner. “A male agent.” He looks away, but she presses on. “They thought they recognized some weakness in you that I could exploit. A failsafe that would work against you even if I conceded that the work had merit.”

His is very still and for a moment she thinks he will say nothing - that they will drink from these glasses until they are empty, then carry on as though the words were never spoken. Finally, he reaches for the bottle with a resigned look. “This is at least a two-glass story, Scully. Let me top you off.”

Something in his tone makes her anxious, but she gamely takes another sip and settles back into the booth. He leans forward, lightly clasping his right wrist. “After I finished my bachelor’s, I moved back to the Vineyard for a few months. I was miserable - missing the misery I’d left in Oxford, I guess - and didn’t know what to do next. I met someone happy and motivated who couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get my ass in gear. She encouraged me to enroll in the Academy. In retrospect, I don’t think she knew what that would mean...she had no idea how the darkness there would interact with the darkness of my childhood. I think she thought it would help? I have no idea. It was what it was.”

“So she moved with you to Virginia when you enrolled in the Academy?”

“Yeah. And it was good. Really good, in the beginning. We moved out early, had a place.” He swallows, and she realizes she is holding her breath. “Right before I started at Quantico, we decided to marry.”

Scully keeps her face still, nods carefully. She has guessed at enough over the years to mute the sting. Still, she feels icy pricks falling down her spine, and a numbness in her hands. He looks at her carefully for a moment, then continues.

“For the first year or so after I completed my training, everything was fine. Well, pretty much fine. I was on general assignment - this was before I moved to VICAP. From the beginning, she was surprised by how much I worked, but...things started to get more difficult at home when I transferred. I was gone a lot, wasn’t sleeping well, worked late hours even when I was home.” He looks down and tilts his glass. “She decided to get a master’s in public health. Partially to fill up the hours when I wasn’t around, I think, although it ended up being a good move for her. In any case, we spent less and less time together.”

The waitress interrupts. “Can I get you guys some food?”

Mulder looks at Scully sheepishly and gestures towards the flimsy menu in front of her. “Uh, I’ll have the Cuban sliders and a basket of fries.”

“The beet salad, please.” 

After the waitress leaves, they sip their wine awkwardly for a moment.

“So what happened?”

Mulder leans forward again, idly rubbing the outsides of his elbows. “After the Monty Props case, the work really started piling up. And Patterson was - well, you met him. At some point, I profiled a patient with a peculiar backstory; he claimed he was a kind of hit man for the dead. I went out to interview him at a mental institution with another agent who was called in on a consult.”

“Diana.”

If he is surprised by her guess, he hides it well. “Yeah. We ended up tracking down two other patients with similar stories in other institutions. A long-time secretary in VICAP happened to mention that the case looked like it should be cross-classified as an X-File, which I’d never heard of. A few months later, I’d learned enough to track down Arthur Dales. I managed to get reassigned to the X-Files as a full-time agent within a year.”

“And Diana?”

“The budget was tight. She regularly worked cases with me, but stayed on general assignment. That probably saved my ass in the end.”

He starts to slowly edge his cocktail napkin apart. “I didn’t mean for the affair to happen. We were out on a case, had been up two nights running.” Scully nods to herself, even though he’s not looking for it. She’s felt that kind of mania before. “I was...sick, afterwards. Six weeks later it happened again. I tried to call it off, but the gulf between my work and home life kept widening -- I couldn’t tell Em anything. Or thought I couldn’t. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, to be honest. In the end, I decided I wanted out. She was devastated.” He separates the napkin again, and again, until the wet pieces are piled up in strips in front of him. “I didn’t deal with the divorce well. When an opportunity came up for Diana to transfer to a higher profile gig overseas, I didn’t stand in her way.” 

He picks up his glass for a moment, then puts it back down. “I...ah. That’s not all. A few years later - after you and I started working together, when the X-Files were closed and I was on wiretap duty - I ran into a friend of Em’s. She was really angry. I thought I understood why, figured she’d heard about Diana. But instead she let it slip that Em was pregnant when I walked out. She...she lost it a few weeks later, alone. I never knew. It was just...fucking awful.” He shakes his head.

Scully just sits, staring at his hands cupped around the shredded napkin. She wants to still their nervous, miserable movements, or flick her glass at him, let the wine arch across his face. She is old enough to have guessed that the man before her carried some additional tragedies with him, and she is also old enough to identify, at least in part, with each protagonist in his story. But that is no anodyne against the physical shock of betrayal.

He stops talking. She looks at the moving bodies at the bar. When their food arrives, they eat silently for several minutes. Then Scully puts down her fork.

“Why haven’t you told me before?”

“I don’t know. It was personal. And later...”

She sits very still. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” She is looking past him, trying to catch the waitress’s eye. The laughing girl at the bar has her hand on her target now, one boot perched on the rung of a barstool. She leans into him, arching her back just a bit. Not too much. Not improper, and she looks away as she does it, out through the front windows of the bar. The man she is with curves his hand into the small of her back and he leans down to whisper in her ear.

“Scully. I know that --“

The waitress finally looks over and Scully raises her chin, signaling her over to their table. She doesn’t look back at Mulder. He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Hi. Could we get the check, please?”

The waitress raises her eyebrows, but wisely says nothing. Scully reaches down to her purse on the floor, wincing at the pain in her back. What a fucking week. She knows that if she digs around in her purse for long enough, the check will be back, and she can escape this moment without having to meet his eyes again.

Except that when she pops her head back up, Mulder is leaning back, resting a elbow on the back of the booth. The receipt dangles from his hand. He runs a tired hand through his hair and looks at her, stricken.

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll get it. It’s the least I can do since you’ve been letting me stay at your place --“

“Scully, cut the crap.”

“Mulder, I’m tired and it’s late.“

“It’s not late. And you’re not tired, you’re pissed off.”

She looks past him. “You are not obligated to explain yourself to me, and never have been.” She hears the anger slipping in, and changes course. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”

“Why not? I don’t think the good people of this bar give a damn.” He is glaring at her. She glances up and away.

“Because we’re in a public place, Mulder, and as I said, I’m tired. It’s been an incredibly long week.”

“I am so sick of this shit, Scully.” He punctuates her name by slamming the hand with the receipt down on the table. In a flash, she’s pulled it out from under his palm and is walking towards the waitress station. 

He doesn’t follow. She signs the bill and finds him outside, pacing under the streetlight.

She doesn’t acknowledge him, and instead turns towards his apartment, then checks herself. She needs to head west if she wants to find a cab. After a moment she hears him walking up behind her.

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand, but could you do me a favor? Could you just try, for once, to talk to me instead of shutting me out?”

She has every intention of ignoring him, but the wine has loosened carefully learned patterns of control.

“Look, I don’t know what you want to hear from me.” She slows her steps for a moment and turns to face him. “It’s a sad story, and you’ve learned from it. Clearly you’ve done a better job this time around.”

He just stares at her for a moment. 

“You’re lying.”

That gets her attention. “Excuse me?” She steps back from him.

“You’re afraid of the truth.”

“What? Mulder, I’m catching a cab. Goodnight.”

“That’s a lot of money just to avoid answering me.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Mulder. It’s just been a long --”

He looks at her with an odd mix of focus and fury that she hasn’t seen before, and then his hands shoot out to grab her coat lapels. He takes two large steps forward, until she is up against a darkened glass storefront. “What are you--“

His mouth descends and she freezes. His face is warm and his chin scrapes roughly against her as he pulls her up slightly, into his mouth. With a rush, she remembers what it is like to be this way with another human being. 

He pulls away after a moment and she is panting, looking up at him, still furious. A cab is coming down the street.

“Hands. Off.”

He pulls back in surprise, and she ducks under his arm, jogging to the curb. By the time he recovers, the cab is slowing, and she’s grabbing the handle.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is a barely suppressed yell, raw and angry.

“Georgetown. Goodnight, Mulder.”

\-----

 

It takes Scully about thirty seconds to realize that coming back to her apartment was a mistake. The smell of industrial-strength orange disinfectant is overwhelming, and the first thing she sees when she enters is a blue mat covering the bloodstain in her foyer. She is talking herself down from a panic attack and searching through her desk drawer for a spare phone charger -- hers is on Mulder’s nightstand -- when she hears the knock on the door.

“Shit.” She’s misjudged him. She’d assumed he would go home and ignore her for the rest of the weekend.

She picks her way around a pile of books and knick knacks that the cleaners have neatly stacked next to her mangled bookcase. She is not fast enough, and hears a key in the lock.

“I’m coming.”

When she turns the lock he walks past her quickly, intent and impatient.

“You know, there’s something I don’t understand about this situation.”

She reflexively turns the lock again before turning towards him. He’s still in his trench coat, hands on his hips. She crosses her arms.

“That makes two of us. Why are you here?”

“Because I want you.”

His words are sharp and punctuated. He might as well have said, “Because I want you, you fucking idiot.” 

Her face goes hot and she has to remember after a moment to close her mouth.

“O-kay.” she hates the shaky, breathy sound of her voice, but lingering anger makes her press on. “Is this a new development?”

His eyes are still boring into her. “No.” He pauses. “I’ve made passes at you before. Last spring.”

“Not serious ones.” She can’t think of anything else to say. “So...why now?”

He pulls his hands off of his hips and shrugs out of his trench coat, throwing it over her couch with a muffled curse. “Can I sit down?”

She waves out a hand.

He sinks into the sofa and leans his head back, thinking.

“Because I don’t want anyone else. Because it doesn’t matter to those bastards whether we’re lovers - they’ve known for years what you can do to me. The bastards who are left, anyway. And I just...I’m tired of waiting to see if I screw this up, Scully.”

His declaration is unexpected, infuriating, and so very Mulder. She sinks down beside him because her knees are giving out. They sit for a long time, not looking at one another. Her mind is racing, trying to imagine what it would be like to lower the last wall.

“The choice is ultimately yours, Scully. It has been for a long time.”

“Mulder, this week has been...”

“Terrible.”

“Your timing -“

“Sucks.”

She wants to stall, to ask for time to think. But she’s had years to think.

After a long interval, he finds a bit of bravery in his misery. “I think you’ve thought about it too.”

She has. His voice is dark and when she looks up, his eyes darker. Every time she has imagined this, there is no difficult conversation or statement of personal truth. And now that he is asking her to make a choice, she has no idea how to proceed.

Finally, he stands, pulling on his coat and reflexively putting his hand in his pocket to search for keys. 

“Mulder.” 

She touches the side of his trench, but he doesn’t look down, so she reaches for his hand and pulls herself up from the sofa. She is so close to him that her nose grazes his shoulder. He smells clean and terribly familiar.

Their eyes meet and she slides her hands up to the warm skin of his neck, resting her thumbs along his jaw. He holds himself stiffly and hesitates for just a moment before tilting his head down to her. 

“What?”

She arches up, standing on her tip toes in an attempt to reach him. “You know what.” Their mouths are so close that she can feel his breath against her cheek, but he won’t close the gap. Finally he gives in and brushes his lips against hers, kissing her, but not deeply. Frustrated, she weaves her hands into his hair and pulls him down, sliding her tongue across his swollen bottom lip. He signs and moves with more intention, sweeping a hand down her face and across the sensitive skin along her collarbone.

His other hand finds a place where her sweater has ridden up. He runs his fingers back and forth across her lower back for a moment before dipping underneath the fabric. She groans and slides her hands to his waist under his coat. Heat is radiating off of him, and when she leans forward again she feels the bulge against her stomach.

“Bedroom.”

She breaks away, meaning to slow things down, but his mouth follows her down. His hands leave her momentarily to shrug off his coat, then move to her ass, pressing her groin against his.

He begins to walk her backwards towards her bedroom hallway. The next time his mouth leaves hers, she catches a wicked smirk. He reaches over and flicks the light. She nips at his lower lip in response. Message received.

When they reach her bedroom, he spins her to face the bed and opens his mouth on her neck. Her back arches involuntarily.

“Mmm. You like that.”

“Just lordosis.”

He scoffs against her neck and moves his hands to waist, then pushes them up until they’re just under her bra, exposing most of her stomach. She tips her head back, loving the feel of his large hands spanning her chest. His mouth goes back to her neck as he skims two fingers along the cups of her bra. This time she intentionally presses her ass into the hard warmth at the small of her back. He groans and pulls the sweater up and over her head, then sits before her on the edge of the bed. 

She looks down at his soft brown hair as he slides his hands down her back and opens his hot mouth against her breastbone. It feels incredible, and she runs her hands across his head, encouraging him, wanting his hands and mouth all over her.

He works her bra clasp until it releases, then pushes his hands up under the cups of her bra, sliding his palms over hard nipples as his mouth continues to move against her stomach. He opens his legs wider and one hand leaves a breast to press against the small of her back, pushing the warmth of her pelvis into his cock. She drops her head and grinds her lower body against his. He moans, urging her closer, and pushes the loose cups of her bra over her breasts so that he can take a nipple in his mouth. Her clit pulses and she thinks she could come from this, his hot tongue licking her nipple and the warm pressure of his cock thrusting at her through their clothes. 

He drops a hand to her pants, and she stands limply as he works the button free. Her knees shake as he dips his fingers down under her panties.

She can’t believe how long it’s been since she’s felt this way. 

She groans when his hand travels back up to her waist, pushing pants and underwear down. She holds her breath as his mouth leaves her breast to kiss her below her belly button. 

She is thinking about pushing him down to the bed when he unexpectedly drops his head, leaning over to kiss her just above her clit. He pushes her legs apart insistently until has to step out of one pant leg. When she is free he pulls her groin to his face and slides a hand up the side of her thigh, gooseflesh following his hot hand as it comes to rest under her ass. 

Her legs are shaking when his mouth opens on her clit. A moment later, he slicks a finger to her entrance, deliciously relieving the pressure there.

It is good, so good. She moans when he replaces his finger with his thumb, pressing into her again and again as he slowly tongues her clit. His eyes are closed, and his face is pure lust, like he’s fucking her with his mouth. When she pushes his head away, his pupils are dilated orbs in a flushed face, lips and mouth shiny with her. His legs are spread, and the head of his cock presses against his dress pants. She leans down to kiss him, reaching blindly for the waistband of his pants. He tastes like sex, and she laps at his mouth. She has to pull the fabric of his pants to release the tight catch, and he groans as she works the zipper down. She crouches on the floor to pull his pants off before realizing he is still wearing shoes. Quietly, he leans down to help undo his laces and pull off his pants. Then she comes back up for him, naked, and presses her skin against the warmth of his. They fall back on the bed, side by side, and she slides her hand inside his boxer briefs as their mouths meet again. 

The skin of his cock is hot and taunt, and he groans as she slides her hand down his length and back up again to circle the head. When she leans over to slide his boxers down his legs, she bends down to take him in her mouth. This time he gasps aloud. “No.” He pulls her back up to him and plunges his tongue in her mouth before smoothing a hand back down her waist to the junction between her legs. 

He drags his finger slowly over her slit, teasing her without pushing inside.

She needs more and pulls on his shoulders until he maneuvers over her. She spreads her legs and grasps his cock. The smell and feel of him are overwhelming, and she closes her eyes until she feels his mouth against hers.

“Scully.” Their eyes meet as he begins pushing into her, blunt and thick. The pressure catches her off guard. He is big, and it has been years since she’s had sex. Her legs and his arms are trembling, and his breath shudders. He stops for a moment, then proceeds until his groin is flush against hers. She can feel the pulsating of his cock and his breath on her hair and *so much* of him. She can’t believe how much of this she has forgotten. The small, urgent sounds, the feel of hot skin again the inside of elbows and knees, the way her legs bend to accommodate his narrow pelvis, the press of his hipbones. He begins to pull back out and dips his head to look at her, but she can’t face him. She wants to get back to the white hot burn of lust, and turns her face to his neck instead, opening her mouth and biting down just enough to get him to move. His rhythm smooths out and she begins to push her hips up to meet the long heavy slide of his cock. She is just getting into a rhythm when his becomes more erratic. Without warning, he pulls out of her and rolls onto his side.

“You’re going to have to get on top.” He leans over to kiss her again, idly sliding his hands over her breasts. She begins to relax and their kisses become slow, probing. He tastes so good that she thinks she could stop at this. He trails one hand back between her legs and she slides a leg over his hip, giving him more access. He fingers her clit and soon she is moaning, pressing herself against his hand. He slides a finger in, then another, and she sucks on his tongue. 

“Fuck.” He leans away from her mouth and looks at her groin rolling against his hand. He starts to push his fingers in harder, and she spreads her legs so he can see her moving. “I want to taste you again.” He slides down the bed and moans when his mouth rejoins his fingers. She can’t keep her hips still, and he tongues her until she’s close to coming. 

“Up.” She pulls at his shoulders until he comes back up and pushes him onto his back. His cock is rod straight against his stomach as she moves over him, adjusting their position until the head slips inside. It is hot and tight and she has to rock her hips to take him further. The pleasure builds until all she can do is grind and release, grind and release. She looks down at his cock as it pushes into her, thick and ruddy. His head is thrashing and the thought of him coming inside her makes her bounce down hard on him until she falls over the edge, internal muscles rippling. He finds her hips with his hands and pushes up a few more times, then stiffens and pulses within her.

She pulls off of him and moves away so that she can cool off. As his breathing slows, he drapes a heavy hand around her waist and pulls her towards him. They kiss for a long, slow moment, and she rubs her feet down the front of his shins. 

“Mmm. Nice.” His voice is husky, and goosebumps break out on her arm as he slides his hand over her skin.

“Yes.” She lays awake for a long time, listening to the soft sound of his breathing.

\-----------------

At dawn Scully opens her eyes. She’s been half asleep for most of the night, never quite growing accustomed to the feel of Mulder’s arm over her waist, his long limbs pressed against her from behind. She thinks, momentarily, about how weird this is. But it’s still dark outside, and a Saturday, and she doesn’t need to get out of bed yet. Instead, she allows herself to relax a bit more against him, until she can feel the length of him against her lower back.

“Mmm.” His lips immediately nuzzle the soft skin of her neck. “Good morning.” His voice is a whispered rasp against her ear, and the hand at her waist travels up to cup a breast. The feel of his palm against her nipple makes her back arch, and his cock slips between her legs.

His mouth finds her neck, licking and sucking until she’s writhing. He responds by lifting her leg up and over his. His hands are careful between her legs, but she is immediately responsive, excited by the idea of him fucking her like this, and angles her ass back. She is sore as he pushes inside, but he moves slowly, and the pain begins to give way. The angle is incredible. 

He leans over her shoulder to reach her mouth, and for several long minutes they kiss as he thrusts into her. She wants him deeper, and rolls onto her belly. It’s harder for him to reach her this way, so he puts his thumb at her lips. She sucks it in and bites down until he groans. After a few minutes, he pulls his hand away from her mouth and down to her clit, working her as he thrusts. She knows he can see them, and pushes more of her weight to her knees. He sits back and cups her ass from behind, spreading her legs and pulling her up so that he can drive into her. The wet slap of him excites her, and she leans her shoulders down. 

“Oh, god. Fuck, Scully.” His voice is dark, deep. She’s never heard him say her name like this.

He traces the cleft of her ass with one hand, then reaches around to run two fingers around her clit. She feels crazed, like she can’t get him deep enough, and extends her arms forward to the headboard, pushing against it for leverage as she grinds her pelvis into his hand. He speeds up his thrusts and she comes fast and hard, gasping for breath. He grasps her hips and slams into her behind with short, deep thrusts until he is jerking and twitching, then collapses onto her. Her back is still sore and she pushes up until he gets the point and rolls onto his side. 

“Normally you aren’t a morning person.” His voice is groggy from sex and lack of sleep and his eyes are half lidded. The sun is coming up now and there is enough light in the room for her to see his face. 

She looks for some wariness there, some recognition of the oddity of this situation. They have spent hundreds of mornings together, but none like this. She almost can’t believe he’s here - except that in her dreams, the bed doesn’t smell like sex, she isn’t sore, and there is no morning after.

“It’s barely morning.” She catches herself before saying his name; it’s hard to reconcile this man with the partner who typically makes it into the office by 7 AM on Monday mornings and still hasn’t managed to turn in their receipts for the DeMarco case.

“Normally you aren’t a late night person either.”

She pushes a hand against his slightly sweaty shoulder and pulls the covers around herself, to hide from him as much as anything else. There is no makeup on her bruises now, and she doesn’t want to think about her hair. “Is it really time for talking? It’s a Saturday.” 

He takes her hand from where it rests against his shoulder and then arranges himself around her until she dozes off with her head on his chest. When she awakens again, light is streaming in, and he’s gone. She wonders if he’s left. The thought simultaneously worries and reassures her.

She rolls onto her stomach, cautiously probing her thoughts. The sex was the best she’d ever had, by a long shot. And she’d loved him for years, apart from a few bouts of extreme irritation. Selected images from the night filter through her thoughts, and she burrows into the covers in very un-Scully like fashion. She is in love with him, of course. But he can also be an infuriating asshole.

So.

She sighs and pulls her alarm around. 8:30 AM. Impressive for a week without jet lag. She attempts to disentangle herself from the twisted sheets and realizes that she is now sore for more than one reason. Grimacing, she combs out her hair, pulls on a loose fitting shirt and pajama bottoms, and heads out to meet her fate.

Mulder is sitting on her couch reading the Sunday Times in his dress pants and white undershirt. His feet are up on the coffee table, and she idly remembers the exquisite feeling of rubbing her feet against them.

“Yup, I’m still here. That happened.” He doesn’t look up from the paper. 

She studies him until he finally meets her gaze. Something in his expression reminds her of their first meeting. After a long moment, she walks over and drops herself down beside him on the couch.

“I noticed.” He smells amazing. She hesitates for just a moment, then leans over and kisses the stubble on his neck, just under his jaw. He makes a little humming sound. 

She pulls back to look at the paper.

“Anything interesting?”

“Immigration woes, questionable pharmaceutical trials, campaigning.”

He dips down and catches her lips with his.

“Scully.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m hungry.”

She sniffs him. “And dirty.”

“Very.”

“Well. Easy answer. You should take a shower, and then go get us food.”

He snorts, stands, and pulls her up. “I like your shower idea.”

“Mulder...”

“Come on, Scully. It’s efficient. You’ll like it.”

He is so busy trying to get her shirt off that she doesn’t think about her bathroom until they’re standing inside it, and by then she’s laughing at Mulder’s uncoordinated attempts to get out of his dress pants. She hesitates for only a moment, looking at the empty shelf space where candles used to be. Mulder holds out a hand, and she steps into the spray.

She has seen a soaked Mulder on several occasions. A rainy night in Oregon, a decon shower, a hotel room in Rhode Island. But everything is different now. They kiss against the running water. 

“Thank you.” She murmurs the words against his lips, already sliding her hands up the warm swell of his chest.

“The pleasure is all mine.” He takes her wrist against his mouth and gently kisses it. His eyes are in love. 

She believes them.

\-------

“Love is a gift  
that springs from an unlit spot. Resin and rue.  
Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.” - Alice Fulton


End file.
